


these bruise-colored skies

by nxttime



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Red Robin (2009), Future Hurt/Comfort, Title from a Radical Face song, buckle up 'cause it's gonna be a ride, we take a match to canon and watch it burn, we're dealing with this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 07:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxttime/pseuds/nxttime
Summary: Tim lay there and stared up at the stars, and he started to think.To wonder.Robin's just been taken from him, so Tim goes on a road trip to think. He runs into a familiar face while out and gets to talking. Meanwhile, back in Gotham, Dick is tearing himself apart in an effort to keep the world from collapsing around him. He starts to wonder where it all started going wrong.





	1. a long way from home

Tim opened the truck's door and stepped out, leaving his hand on it as he looked up at the star dusted sky and breathed the air that belonged to the galaxies. He stared up at the twinkling lights in the night and thought.

_ "Did you even think to talk to me about it?!" _

_ Dick's face pinched in pain and Tim took it as his answer. _

_ "Tim," he tried, "you don't need Robin anymore; you're my equal. He needs my help. He needs Robin more than you do." _

_ "Do you even hear yourself?!" Tim yelled, throwing an arm out in frustration. "How could he possibly need it more than I do?!" _

_ "He just lost his father--!" _

_ "And this is the second time I lose mine, Dick!" Tim screamed, his voice cracking midway through the sentence. "I lost Jack, I lost Bruce, I lost my best friends…" He turned his teary eyed gaze to Dick. _

_ "And I apparently lost my brother, too." _

His hand slipped off the door as he watched the stars.

It was unusual, some would say, but Tim didn’t know where he was. He didn’t have a plan for the foreseeable future. There was no grand ploy or scheme he was working on fulfilling. He didn’t have any ulterior motives; wasn’t playing an elaborate game of chess with anyone.

There was no plan.

Just Tim, the cash he had on him, and the truck. His phone he’d left behind, right along with any gear he could still lay a claim on. If anyone  _ really  _ needed him, they could bother Barry or Wally to run around the world.

Until then, though, it was just him, his cash, and the old 1969 Ford Ranger.

Tim took about ten steps into the grassy meadow, then lowered himself so he was lying with his back to the earth. 

He lay there and stared up at the stars, and he started to think. 

To wonder.

Robin… That wasn't him anymore. He wasn't Robin; would never go back to  _ being  _ Robin, never again, because that mantle was Damian's now.  _ (Dick had given it to him, and it was Dick's to give, wasn't it? The original Robin; he had the right to take away his old mantle and give it to someone else. Tim hadn't even wanted to be Robin when he'd started off.) _

So he wasn't Robin.

Without Robin, all that remained was Tim Drake. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, adoptive son of billionaire Bruce Wayne, biological son of Jack and Janet Drake.

It made him wonder.

Tim knew who he was. He knew who Timmy Drake was; knew who Timothy Drake was. He knew who  _ he  _ was.

But could he really say that, now? The Tim he knew, the Tim he was familiar with, had adopted Robin as a part of who he was.

That wasn't to say he'd made it an  _ essential _ part of his identity, but Robin was integral enough in his life to make it feel like a part of him was missing. He wasn't… wasn't complete, not entirely, without Robin.

He laid with the grass and thought about it.

Did he want to stay in the vigilantism life? Did he want to keep doing what he'd been doing, just with a new moniker?

Did he want to keep risking it?

For Bruce and Dick, and maybe even Damian, being a vigilante was  _ part  _ of them. It was a piece of them that they couldn't just remove; there was no "hanging up the mask" for them. They either died of old age or fighting the good fight young. If they were to retire from vigilantism, it would be forced; an injury too extreme or age too advanced.

Tim hadn't ever wanted to become like Bruce.

Being a vigilante hadn't ever been part of the plan, either. The plan was: Get Dick to be Robin again, so Bruce would get better. Batman needed a Robin.

Then he'd had to put on the uniform to save Bruce and Dick.

And that was, essentially, that.

It was a last-second choice, really. One Tim knew he'd have made without hesitation, always, to save Batman and Nightwing. He had to protect them.

But that was back then. Batman had a new Robin. Tim wasn't needed anymore; he'd even planned to step down if Jason ever, somehow, by some miracle, came back.

Robin was never supposed to be a permanent gig.

Tim wanted to go to college, wanted to double major in Photography and Forensics. He wanted to become a Criminal Profiler, wanted to buy himself a house, wanted to settle down and maybe adopt a few kids.

He wanted to  _ live;  _ have an actual  _ life. _

Vigilantism was nowhere in those plans, and maybe…

Maybe it shouldn't be.


	2. as the warmth of the sun leaves my back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...i'm sorry this took so long to get out and I hope it was almost maybe worth the wait!

A sigh left his lungs in a powerful rush of air as he ran a hand through his hair and paced in his room. There were a thousand and one things going on in his head, so many things he was thinking about, so much to do and so much to plan and it was _so much—_

Dick was struggling. 

He sighed a second time and buried his face in his hands, pausing his stress pacing by his window.

Bruce was dead. Bruce was dead. He was gone, dead, never coming back.

He was gone, and there was so much to do. Dick had to be in both Blüdhaven and Gotham, had to be Nightwing and Batman, had to balance being in the League with being there for Damian and keeping up with his responsibilities back in Blüd, had to make sure the big players were all accounted for, had to plan the funeral, had to figure out what to do with Wayne Enterprises, and what to do with Bruce’s appearances, and how to get Damian to stop trying to murder everyone and everything he saw, and try to be there for Alfred, and try to see if he can find a therapist for Damian to talk to, and try to figure out how to make Damian docile.

There was so much on his shoulders. There was so much to worry about. There were so many pieces on the floor he had to pick up. There were so many loose ends he had to chase, so much to wrap up, so much to settle, so much to decide, so much to do.

God, it was so much.

It was… It was too much.

Dick didn’t want to be Batman, he didn’t want to be responsible for Wayne Enterprises, he didn’t want to be responsible for raising Damian—

He didn’t want to be Bruce.

But now he was stuck.

Hands still over his face and hiding the tears that had gathered up behind them, Dick walked backwards until the back of his thighs hit the desk. He leaned back on it and hunched his shoulders as he started to cry as quietly as he could.

“I didn’t want this,” he whispered to the air in a cracking voice. “I didn’t, _I didn’t want this.”_

The room was empty, though. There was nobody around to care. He was just wasting time, crying in his room, alone. He still had to check with the therapist for Damian, had to make sure everything in Wayne Enterprises was running on schedule, had to stop crying because he’s an adult. He’s an adult, and there wasn’t time for crying. No time for grief.

He had to soldier up and keep moving forward. Dick had a job to do; had responsibilities that he had to take care of immediately.

Dick didn’t have time to stop and cry.

…but, God, what else could he do? He’d been wrong, he’d been so, _so _wrong.

Giving Robin to Damian without talking to Tim about it beforehand—he’d thought Tim would understand; he was _so _smart, there was so much he could do without Robin holding him back, so many opportunities he could have being someone who was completely unattached to Batman. He could be so much _more._

He could, Dick knew it, but Tim apparently hadn’t been ready yet.

_ “And I apparently lost my brother, too.” _

Those words had dug the claws already gripping Dick’s heart in deeper and savagely ripped away at it.

Tim hadn’t taken it well, and now…

Now he was _gone. _He’d disappeared without a trace, literally everything of his could be accounted for.

Tim was gone, and it was Dick’s fault.

Dick’s voice cracked as he managed a pained, _“Fuck.”_

He already had so much to worry about, had so much to think about, had so much to keep in mind. Now he was afraid. Mortally, deeply, wholly afraid. There was nothing he could do to find him because Tim hadn’t left any leads. Dick had _nothing _to go off of.

Bruce was dead, Dick was raising a kid that wasn’t his, he’d chased Tim away, and Dick couldn’t break. He couldn’t; he had to be everything’s foundation. Nobody could afford for him to break, nobody could stand it if he were to fall apart.

Dick _had _to keep going. He _had _to take it all as it came, _had _to keep on walking no matter how deep he was in the water. 

God he didn’t want to. He really, really, _really _didn’t want to as he sat there and cried. He didn’t want to as he felt the storm raging in his chest rage up. He didn’t want to as he felt just how much he’d lost come crashing down on his shoulders.

He didn’t want to.

But he had to.

So he would.

He would, but _fuck _if it wasn’t hell.

He would, but he let himself sit there and cry.

He would, but he just wanted _five minutes. _Just five minutes to sit there and feel the pain of it all, five minutes to sit there and feel how it all ripped and tore at him, five minutes to let himself grieve not only for Bruce but for himself too.

He just wanted five minutes to feel hopeless.

Five minutes to feel defeated.


	3. and these bruise-colored skies turn to black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter: Anti-hero extraordinaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a minute because of school, but here it is!

Jason’s sitting in a bar, in some random town in Missouri, staring at the bourbon in his shot glass and not thinking about anything, for once.

He hadn’t been doing much of importance the past four months. He’d rented an apartment in whatever city it was that he’d ended up in—_paid in cash_—and bought a motorcycle—_also paid in cash._

For the last four months, Jason’s been living civilian.

Nobody would believe him if he told them. Not that there _was_ anyone to tell, anyways, but hypothetically in some perfect world where everyone he loved wasn’t either dead or ignoring him.

He doubted anyone would care, either.

Why should they?

Everyone had more important things to do whenever it came to him, and he’s long since accepted that.

So, he hadn’t told anybody where he’d gone, what he’d been doing, how his life was going. He’d just vanished one day. Nobody had come looking, nobody would.

Just because the music had changed, didn’t mean the dance was different.

The alcohol burned in his throat as he knocked the shot back and stood, throwing his bar rag over his shoulder and going to wash his glass.

It’s Happy Hour in the bar he worked at, every night from nine to twelve, that night not an exception, being eleven pm and the bar’s pique.

Jason worked the bar, experienced a lot of drunk one-sided heart-to-hearts with the customers that got absolutely shitfaced. It wasn’t the best gig but it was far from the worst. Sometimes, he’d admit, listening to other people’s problems almost made him feel better about his own.

He started cleaning glasses, periodically being waved over for more rounds of whatever the patron had been drinking before returning to the repetitive, calming task that was washing the counters and cups.

Thirty minutes later saw Jason picking up the tip a customer had left him and putting the rest of the money into the register, crumpling the tab he’d written up to throw it out as he did.

He heard someone rest their head on the bar and glanced over at the new customer, closing the register and throwing the tab in the small trash bin.

Grabbing a beer, he popped it open and set it down beside the guy’s head.

“First beer’s on the house,” he said, turning back to the sink. “Long day?”

“Try long week,” the muffled voice replied. “Can I get a water?”

Jason snorted and glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t know if you noticed walking in here, but this is a bar. We don’t normally get people asking for water.”

Muffled again, “I never claimed to be normal.”

Shrugging, Jason said, “Fair,” and started filling a glass with water, back to the customer.

There was some shuffling—the customer sitting up, Jason figured—and a yawn, then, “So. How’s it been, Jason?”

Arching a brow, Jason turned the tap off and faced “the customer”, handing him the glass.

“Quiet,” he answered. “Not much goes on in this town.”

Someone down the bar waved at him for another round, so Jason grabbed a pitcher to head over and refill the patron’s cup. When he returned, he said, “What brings you here, Tim? I wasn’t expecting to see you around.”

Tim’s eyes were dull when they met Jason’s.

Jason sighed.

“Let me guess,” he said, “someone’s dead.”

Tim nodded, hands tightening a little around his water.

“Well, _I _didn’t do it.”

Tim made a face at him, and asked, “What?”

Jason shrugged, turning to get back to the cup cleaning.

“Usually, whenever someone’s dead, people come to me ready to point the finger. Just saying: I didn’t do it.” Gesturing to the entire bar, he said, “I’ve been around here the last four months.”

“Jason, I know you didn’t do it—”

“Hallelujah.”

“—I came to ask for some advice.”

Jason snorted, pausing his task to half-turn to Tim with a hand on his hip—the bar rag tossed over a shoulder—and said, “Yeah, and I’m here to channel my inner chi.” Shaking his head he resumed cleaning glasses. “What advice could I possibly offer you, anyways?”

The only things Jason knew better than Tim were the bar’s working hours, how to get rid of a body, how to kill someone in less than five moves, how to make a headshot from over three hundred yards away, and how to fix a car.

“I don’t… Being a vigilante. I don’t know if I want to stay in the life.”

Again Jason stopped, but he turned completely around to look his little brother dead in the eyes. Holding his gaze, Jason squinted and tried to assess the amount of leg-pulling going on.

_Tim, _the kid who’d _replaced him, _wanted out of the life.

It was hard for him to believe.

“Okay,” Jason said slowly, leaning forward on his hands. “And why would I have the advice for you? Don’t say it’s because I’m “old and wise”, because—first of all—I’m only about four years older than you. Second of all…” Jason trailed off and gave Tim a pointed look. _“I’ve killed people.” _The look he gave asked, _Do you really want my advice, _without Jason having to voice it.

Tim’s lips thinned as he returned Jason’s stare.

Vaguely Jason wondered what all was going through Tim’s head.

He didn’t really care much, though.

“You’re out, Jason. All I want is advice on how to do it.”

Jason snorted. “Seriously? Someone like you—figured you’d have a whole life plan, or some shit.” He gestured at the bar. “You want advice from a guy who went from controlling crime to being a bartender for minimum wage?”

“Yeah.”

Narrowing his eyes, Jason eyed his “little brother”. He didn’t know if Tim was playing a game, or laying out the groundwork for some plot—because that’s what Tim _did; _he plotted—of his.

But Jason didn’t care, again. Tim was a big boy in his eyes; the guy could do whatever he wanted.

“Fine,” he said, turning back to his task. “We’ll talk when I’m off my shift; meet me at my place.”

He didn’t expect an answer and therefore wasn’t disappointed when he turned around and caught Tim’s exit.

“Catch you then,” he said to himself, rolling his eyes.


	4. none of these faces look the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update tiiime, haha. This was beta-ed by a friend and I'm eternally grateful! Hope you enjoy!

Tim sat at Jason’s door for what was probably close to two hours. He didn’t break into the place because he wasn’t feeling like it. The apartment was Jason’s. He’d made it his home. That was… Tim didn’t want to violate Jason’s sense of safety. He remembered Bruce doing that to him; Stephanie, and Dick, and Damian, and… 

And he knew what that felt like. He remembered dismissing it as just being part of the family, then again as something he’d deserved, then again as something that he’d have to deal with.

He didn’t want Jason to feel like he had to dismiss it. 

So he sat there, in the hall, caught in his musings. He thought about what he’d done. Up and left Dick, and Damian, and Alfred, and Stephanie, and  _ Gotham. _ He’d run from them to the ostracized brother of his. The one who stuck with his gut, and who did things because he knew they were right, who didn’t let other people’s doubts and anger interfere with his confidence. 

Jason was… many things. He was headstrong, he was angry, he was _ dangerous.  _

But he was other things too. He was smart, he was careful, he was deliberate.

Tim had come to see Jason for a few reasons, one of them being that he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Jason wasn’t on speaking terms with everyone else by choice. Dick would’ve been more than happy to welcome Jason home with open arms. Damian didn’t even know him. Bruce wouldn’t have… No, whether or not Jason wanted Bruce was up to him. Tim didn’t know what their relationship had been like, but he knew Jason held a strong grudge against the man. He wasn’t sure if Bruce would be as happy as Dick to welcome Jason home.

Honestly, it’s just how Bruce was. If he hurt you and you hurt him back, he’d expect you to apologize, then just maybe he’d consider apologizing to you.  _ Maybe _ . If he felt like it. 

Then again, everyone had their flaws. Who was Tim to criticize that? There was that whole “Take out the stick in your eye before you comment on someone else’s” proverb. Tim knew he had his own problems, a list of them a mile long probably. He wasn’t going to start preaching “Therapy” to Bruce.

....it’s not like he was alive enough to hear it, anyways. 

Jason walking down the hall with brown bags in his arms caught Tim’s attention and drew him out of his musings before they got too dark. 

“You look like a bum.”

Tim snorted and stood, noticing just how much his ass hurt from sitting like that for over two hours once he stretched. “Thanks, Jay,” he replied.

Shamelessly Jason shrugged, shifting the bags a bit to grab his keys.

“Want some help?” 

“If you’d be so kind.”

Tim took a bag from his brother, making it easier for him to reach his keys and unlock the door. Once the door is open, Jason walked through it, leaving the keys in the door and calling “Grab the keys for me, will you?” which Tim took as an invitation inside. So he grabbed the keys from the door, walked in, closed and locked it behind him, and turned to face the Red Hood’s apartment. 

If someone walked in not knowing the notorious crime lord Jason used to be, they wouldn’t bat an eye at the well-decorated, aesthetically pleasing livingspace. They’d simply accept the normality, however almost boring and average it was. 

But Tim knew Jason as the Red Hood. He knew him as the man who nearly killed him in Titans Tower. He knew him as the man who’d left heads in a duffle bag to take control of crime in an area of Gotham  _ literally  _ named Crime Alley. He knew him as the man who’d died, but came back stronger. Taller. Smarter. 

Now he was getting to know him for who he’d always been. Jason Todd.

His brother.

“Kitchen’s over here, if you wouldn’t mind giving me my groceries.” 

Tim snapped out of his mild shock and followed Jason’s sarcastic voice into the also dizzyingly normal kitchen, where Jason— _ the Red Hood _ —was putting groceries away. 

“What,” Jason drawled flatly. “Never seen a guy put away his groceries?” Then Jason paused, considered, snorted, and resumed his task. “No, I guess you haven’t.”

Tim blinked and shook his head. 

“It’s not that.”

“Feel free to share with the class, Timothy.”

He stared for another few seconds, then said, “It’s not important.”

Again Jason snorted. “The hell it isn’t. Everything you say better be important, if you’re here barging in on my new life.” 

Tim figured that was fair.

He didn’t know where Jason put his stuff, so he just set the bag down next to the others, and awkwardly stood around.

“Well?” Jason prompted. “Why’re you here?”

“I already told you why.”

“Did you?”

Entirely unimpressed, Tim said, “Yeah, Jason. Back at the bar.”

Jason hummed and didn’t respond for a minute.

“That’s right,” he said. “You want my help in getting out of the life.” He continued putting groceries away, then added, “Go wait for me on the couch, I’ll be there when I’m done here. Just looking at you from the corner of my eyes makes my legs hurt.”

Tim said, “Okay.”

Walking to the couch, Tim couldn’t help but look at all of Jason’s decorations. There were pictures on the walls, like there would be in any other home, but the people in the pictures were Jason’s Outlaws in civvies. Roy and Jason in the middle of a tussle, Starfire examining a sweater looking very suspicious of Santa on it, Bizarro smiling as he patted a puppy and Artemis behind him glaring at the dog-owner--who looked afraid and stressed—over Bizarro’s head. Jason losing to Artemis in an arm wrestle and frantically tapping out, Artemis looking extremely amused as she watched him. 

He paused when he saw a single picture with a Bat.

It was of Jason laughing after he’d made Tim spill his coffee, Tim looking afraid for his life because the coffee had spilled on Alfred’s  _ floor.  _

Tim stared at that picture for a while, thinking about why Jason would have that on his wall, before he simply filed it away as something else he wouldn’t understand about his brother and moved on to take a seat at the couch.

“Can I watch TV?” he called.

“Use Netflix,” Jason yelled back. “I don’t have cable.”

“Of course you don’t,” Tim mumbled, squinting at the remote in his hand. He’d never used one like it.

If Jason found out, he’d tease him about it.

It took a little guessing, but after three minutes, Tim finally maneuvered to Netflix. 

“If you put on The Office, Tim, I’m going to kick you out and you better not show up around here ever again.”

Tim rolled his eyes, looking for something interesting.

“I don’t watch The Office.”

“Yeah, well you seem like the type.”

“Is that an insult?”

“That’s up to you.”

Snorting, Tim finally settled on some bloody action movie and sat back with his arms crossed.

Jason walked out of the kitchen area with a plate in each hand, and took a seat next to Tim on the couch as he passed him one.

Taking a bite out of his sandwich, Jason said, “So you want advice from a killer.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Tim sniffed, putting the remote on the small coffee table in front of him before he reached for his own sandwich. 

“No?” Jason took another bite, swallowed, then: “What would you call it?”

“Getting advice from a brother.”

“You’ve got another one. He’s older, too. Cop. Has had his shit together for a lot longer than me.”

Tim felt his shoulders stiffen at the mention of Dick, but forced them to relax, taking a bite of his food. 

“He’s not available lately,” he ended up saying.

Jason squinted, but Tim ignored him, pretending the food was fascinating, and eventually Jason shrugged. 

“He was like that when I was a kid.”

“Oh yeah?” Tim made a face at the avocado he tasted, and searched out the offending vegetable. “Care to share a few tales from back in the day, old man?”

“Watch it,” Jason said, but it lacked any heat or force behind it. “I’m still capable of kicking your ass, kid.” 

“Uh-huh.” _Aha._ _Found you, you nasty slimy bitch_. “Not the point.”

There was a short silent pause where they both just ate their sandwiches, then Jason set his plate down and stared at the movie playing on the TV.

Tim let him have his time as he nursed his sandwich. 

It was a really good sandwich.

“Dick moved out a little after I moved in.”

Tim didn’t respond, and Jason kept going.

“It was weird, you know? He hated me. I’m completely sure of it.” Glancing over at Tim, Jason said, “It might be hard to believe, Timbo, but Dick Grayson is capable of hating people. Nobody can change my mind about it.” Jason looked away, and resumed talking. “Whenever he saw me, there was this  _ look  _ he’d get in his eyes, like if I could spontaneously combust he wouldn’t mind. He’d look at me like… like  _ I’d  _ killed his parents.”

Leaning back on the couch, Jason’s tone went nonchalant. 

“Honestly? When he moved out, I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or depressed. He was  _ my Robin. _ I remembered watching him jump and flip around on the roofs, or watching him on the news, and thinking that maybe one day I could be a hero just like him.” He snorted. “I guess that saying is true. Never meet your heroes.”

Tim knew that quote well. 

Like he read his mind, Jason patted Tim’s head, earning a noise of protest from his brother. “I never did apologize for whooping your ass back then, did I?” He hummed, then added: “Sorry. I was a little…” Jason pointed at his head and wiggled his index finger. “...not totally there.”

His phrasing made Tim bark out a short laugh. 

“Understatement,” Tim chuckled. “You were completely out of it.”

Jason shrugged and crossed his arms behind his head. “Yeah, well, sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

Nodding, Jason picked up where he left off.

“Before he moved out, Dick would do his best to avoid me. I felt like I had the plague, or that if I looked at him, somehow he’d get stabbed by my look, and Bruce would kick me out.” Jason scowled. “And it pissed me off. Why should I feel like shit, when  _ he  _ was the one living up to his namesake?”

Biting back a few words about how Jason didn’t know the half of it—that really would have just been petty—Tim waited for Jason to pick back up where he’d left off.

“Anyways. After he moved out, I only ever saw Dick on patrol. On patrol, communication is important, yeah? It’s one of the first things Batman teaches you. Communicate, communicate, communicate.” Jason rolled his eyes. “For a guy with a stick up his ass and tape over his mouth, Bruce sure did know how to preach.

“Communication was important in the field. But Dick hated talking to me.”

Jason gave Tim a look. 

“I bet you know where this story is going.”

Tim made a face, but he nodded. 

“Someone almost died?” he guessed.

“No,” Jason said, shaking his head. “Someone did die.”

His answer shocked Tim for some reason. It made sense, logically, but… but it was Dick they were talking about. Lately he’d been a dick, sure, and he had been before, too, but Dick was such a vehement defender of life it was hard for him to believe that Dick had let something so small and petty get in the way of him doing his job well.

Jason frowned. “Dick blamed me for that for a week.”

And there was Tim’s anger again. The same rage that flared up when he saw Damian standing there in the Robin uniform that had been Tim’s only seconds before. The same rage that flared up when Dick had tried getting him to understand, like all he’d done was sold one of Tim’s stuffed animals.

“That’s bullshit,” Tim hissed. “Such fucking bullshit.”

Jason nodded. “Yeah. Kid me took it hard; blamed myself for it, because how could Nightwing be wrong?”

Tim knew that feeling. He knew it like it was his best friend.

He never imagined Jason had ever felt like that. 

“We got off-topic,” Jason said. “My point was that I know how it feels for Dick to be distant. I know what his hate is like, too.” 

Jason looked at Tim. 

“You’re here for a reason, Tim, and it’s not just getting out of the life. Who died?”

Tim looked away, deciding the movie was suddenly way more interesting than it had been the whole time Jason was talking. 

Shrugging, Jason paid attention to the movie too, even commenting on it as the plot developed. 

He managed to keep his mouth shut long enough for the end credits to start rolling across the screen, Jason standing up and stretching until he heard a soft pop. 

“Bruce.”

Jason didn’t react, cracking his knuckles, then his back. “Bruce…?”

“Died,” Tim clarified.

Jason paused. 

Then he shrugged, turning back to face Tim with a hand on his hip and an eyebrow arched.

“Bruce?” he checked.

Getting slightly annoyed, Tim answered, “Yeah.”

A squint, then a doubtful, “Bruce.”

Tim huffed,  _ “Yes.” _

Jason blinked. “Huh.” 

Then he shrugged, turned to do something, and said, “About time.”

Tim was at a loss for words.

“Know when he’s coming back?”

Tim just stared.

Jason looked back down at him and said, “We’ve all died at one point, Tim. He’ll be back.” Making a face, Jason said,  _ “Especially _ Bruce. The assholes always make comebacks. Just look at me, look at Dick. Hal Jordan.” Waving a hand, Jason turned away again and said, “You see my point. Wherever Bruce is, they’re not going to want to keep him for long. The guy is unlikeable unless you’re sucked into his facade.”

While Jason wasn’t inherently wrong about the dying and coming back, Tim still struggled with the thought that Bruce would come back from the dead when his best friends—practically his  _ family _ —were dead. 

_ “The assholes always make comebacks.” _

...and maybe his friends would never come back. 

“But that’s not why you claimed to be here. Did you actually want life advice?”

Tim scrubbed at his face with his hands, his emotions so all over the place that he had no idea where one feeling started and the other ended. 

“Yeah,” he answered through his hand, then dropping it. “I did. I do.”

His brother nodded and straightened up. “Okay.”

Turning, Tim saw that Jason had been walking around the room to gather bedding. He had a blanket folded over one arm, and two pillows shoved under his other one.

Narrowing his eyes, Jason held the blanket out and said, “You can crash here for as long as it takes you to find your marbles. I’ll just show you what it’s like, tell you about the rest that I can’t show. In return, you don’t talk to me about that group of furry freaks unless you’re having a mental breakdown, which you probably will. Deal?”

Tim sat there in stunned silence, staring at Jason’s extended arm.

“He-llo,” Jason drawled, waving the blanket a little. “Earth to Tim.”

Tim opened his mouth, slightly at a loss for words, and tried to say something.

What came out was: “That’s it?”

Jason arched a brow. “Did you want me to have more conditions?”

Slowly, Tim shook his head. 

“Alright then,” Jason nodded. He shoved the blanket into Tim’s arms, then the pillows followed, and said, “You can take the guest room. We’ll buy you some more clothes later, unless you brought some?”

Still somewhat in shock, Tim managed, “I have some.”

Jason nodded again and dragged Tim off the couch to show him the guest room. Meanwhile, Tim couldn’t get past one thing Jason had implied.

_ “—unless you’re having a mental breakdown, which you probably will.” _

Would he?


End file.
